He was going to cross the scar she’d been so proud to bear and show the world she was no longer of the Church. Every protest died in her throat as her pulse echoed with the flicker of firelight on the blade.
‘This is a kindness you should remember when you think of the Faith.’ Abe’s voice was soft as he took her hand and pressed it against the wooden counter. ‘We could have mutilated you so your soulless tongue couldn’t speak against the Church or sent you to the North to starve.’
She nodded. This pain would be a goodness. She would repeat it over and over until she believed it.
‘Stay still,’ Ágnes said. It was an order she’d heard a thousand times, fussing as a child, mind and feet wandering during lectures. She’d never heard it with tears behind it before.
Abe pulled the knife vertically across her palm and a thin line of blood split where it bisected the fresh scar, white at the corners of her vision.
In the doorway, the inquisitor watched with narrow eyes, making no reaction to Csilla’s gagging cry of pain.
She’d been accepted for less than one day. The humiliation was worse than the cut. Abe claimed he was showing her kindness, but she’d find no warmth anywhere.
Ágnes led her out of the kitchens by her uninjured hand, and for a brief second Csilla wanted nothing more than to be a child again, warmed by the belief that everything would be right in her world as long as she was good.
But she hadn’t been good enough, and there was no one to blame but herself.
‘I’ll prepare some things for you. We won’t throw you out empty-handed.’
The gratitude was warm until the finality of it scalded.
‘I’m sorry to be such a disappointment.’
She’d grown up telling herself if she were better, quieter, the first to offer comfort, the one who knew every prayer, everything would be alright. That the Faith served Asten, and everyone had a place, and hers was at Ágnes’s side in service.
‘I understand your choice,’ Ágnes replied as she led her up twisted stairs towards her own rooms.
But she didn’t deny that Csilla was a disappointment.
‘It’s not fair!’ Csilla clenched her hands until she felt the slice of fingernails into her palm, digging at the fresh wound and not caring how it hurt. ‘I’ve done nothing but serve since I was achild. I’ve cared for the people of this city, cared for our people—’ The end of her sentence was lost in memories of other wounds, other tears, and the comfort she’d tried to offer.
Ágnes sighed. ‘It’s up to a higher judgement than ours. The rules are to show us...’
‘Show mercy to souls in need, keep them safe and whole so they can be guided to Brilliance. Isn’t that what we’re taught?’ The tears were coming faster now, her words interrupted only by tiny gasps.
‘Souls, Csilla.’ Ágnes shook her head. ‘All my prayers weren’t good enough for a miracle. Perhaps I’m the one who should have been better.’
The resignation in her tone stilled Csilla’s heart. The elderly woman led her to a window where the light was good and wrapped oil-soaked cotton and linen over the bleeding hand. Csilla almost stopped her, but she didn’t have the strength to advocate for saving the supplies for those worse off, and her selfish heart craved that last bit of care.
‘But I don’t know anything but here.’
Worse, there was nowhere in the Immaculate Union that would fully trust her, especially now, and nowhere on the continent that wouldn’t belong to the Union soon enough. The edges of the wall that protected the sanctity of the city teased her eyes, rising just above rooftops and smoke to divide the Brilliant City from a world that tried its best to fall to Shadow.
Each roof was a story of the lives inside, people she’d fed, babies she’d watched delivered – some red and squalling, some grey and silent – old and young hands she’d held as the bodies of their loved ones were taken for burning.
There might be work outside the city, but this was the only work that mattered.
‘Perhaps someone will take you in,’ Ágnes suggested, a sigh in the words. ‘At least then you wouldn’t be far.’
Csilla closed her eyes and let her lids grow heavy. There was a better chance of Asten returning this second than finding someone willing to take responsibility for a cross-marked soulless girl in the holiest city of the Union.
Except perhaps Mihály. The memory of his warm-honey gaze crept over her.
He had come back for her. He’d tried to warn her.
‘I’ll be sleeping on the streets.’ A sharp thought prodded her. ‘The Izir told me something curious. He said there was a killer in the city.’ There were dangers on the streets she was being banished to.
Ágnes’s eyes narrowed. ‘Don’t listen to a thing that man says, Csilla. Yes, there have been deaths.’ She drew a shaking breath. ‘But they are being handled. Panicking and making more of it than what it is, that’s the type of thing that drives people to heresy.’
